I jumped to my feet and ran, making it to the restaurant long before my shift was scheduled to start.
It didn’t hit me until I stood outside the restaurant trying to catch my breath, my back pressed against the brick building. Naalyehe had been wrong. The eagle wasn’t a symbol of protection—not for me anyway. It had been tracking a pack of coyotes. That made me wonder how long the pack had been around, because, looking back, I had seen that eagle every single time I went to work for the past week.
But why would a pack of coyotes be following me?
28
The mood at José’s was tense. Business had been good—so good, we were low on refried beans, and what self-respecting Navajo Mexican restaurant doesn’t have refried beans?
Once again, the restaurant was packed with tourists. This time, instead of cowboy boots and hats, they all had on similar chokers, three strands of turquoise beads fitted snugly around their necks.
The restaurant was so busy with tourists that I did not get my customary two-hour lunch break—I worked straight through lunch and right into dinner. To make up for it, Naalyehe gave me a plate of steaming blue corn and beef enchiladas—minus the refried beans—and let me eat it in the kitchen.
Customers came and went, some of them familiar, most of them not. Maybe it was my imagination, or maybe the stress of the full moon was making me paranoid, but it seemed like the tourists patronizing the restaurant today were paying special attention to me. They watched my every move, trying to make small talk, asking where I was from, how old I was, what my last name was. Maybe I was so lonely for male attention I was imagining it or making more of their lingering glances and small talk than I should. But it wasn’t only the men. The women were staring, too.
I shook it off and went about my business, concentrating on not messing up orders or spilling anything.
And then Yana pulled me aside.
“Dude. What’s going on with you? Do you know any of these people?”
“No. Why?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.
“They keep staring at you and asking me questions, like how old you are and where you’re from,” Yana explained. “I thought it was just one of my tables at first, thought maybe the guy was going to ask for your number, even though he was totally too old. But then I noticed it’s more than just him. It’s everyone.”
As I glanced around the restaurant, at all the eyes staring at me, the air seemed too heavy to breathe. It’s the lingering fear of the coyote incident, I told myself.
“Are you okay?” Yana asked. “You’re really pale. Paler than usual, even.”
“Totally fine,” I lied, wiping my sweaty palms on my apron.
“Did you notice their chokers?” She nodded to the nearest table of tourists.
“Yeah. What are they?”
“Heishe beads. Have you ever heard of them?”
I shook my head, studying the strands of turquoise on the closest customer.
“I don’t know why all these white guys are wearing them, but the Navajo wear them for one of two reasons. Either to prove they are telling the truth—if they lie the choker strangles them. Or”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“they wear it to keep a secret. If a witch gets caught, his heishe chokes him before he can name others like him.”
“Witch?” I asked, studying Yana to see if she was teasing me.
She glared at me. “Not so loud!” she hissed. “Forget I said that. Let me know if anyone gives you crap or anything, and I’ll kick his butt.” She strode off.
“Excuse me!” a woman called, waving her hand at me. I forced half a smile to my face. She wasn’t a tourist, but a little old lady that ate at the restaurant every Monday night.
“Yes, ma’am?” She always ate alone. I assumed she was a widow.
“I ordered coffee with my flan, but Penney must have forgotten to bring it out,” she said, patting my wrist with her cool, frail hand.
“Coming right up, ma’am,” I told her, glad that fate hadn’t destined me to wait on her. She was nice, I’ll give her that, but she tipped only fifty cents, two shiny quarters, every single time. I suppose in her day fifty cents was probably a generous tip.
I hurried toward the kitchen when the bell over the front door rang. I’d get the coffee after I seated the latest customers. Turning to the door, I froze.
Hovering in the doorway was the one person I thought I’d never see again. I looked around the dining room, hoping Yana or Penney would decide to seat the latest customers, because I wasn’t sure if I should.
But then she smiled, a soft, shy smile. I took a deep breath and walked to the front of the restaurant.
“Hi. Table for three?” I asked.
“Yes, please.”
I walked toward the only empty booth and wondered if a knife was going to be thrust into my back. One glance over my shoulder told me how absurd that was. Danni Williams could hardly walk.
When we reached the empty booth, her parents sat. But Danni put a chilly hand on my elbow and leaned in close.
“Being on the brink of death makes a girl think.” She glanced at her parents. Her mom held a grocery bag out to her and smiled at me. “I’m sorry about school, what I did,” she said. She took the bag from her mom and pressed it into my hands. “It’s another jacket, same as yours minus the bloodstains and being cut in two.”
“Wow. Thanks.” I took the bag from her scarred hand.
“And Bridger’s scum,” she said, venom in her voice. That came out of nowhere.
“Scum? Didn’t he save you that night?” I asked, utterly confused.
She frowned. “What night? Save me from what?”
“The, uh”—I lowered my voice—“really big dogs?”
She studied me like I was crazy. “You mean the night I got attacked at your house?”
I nodded.
“Bridger wasn’t there. He was at graduation. Or maybe he was out with his French girlfriend. I mean, I’d always heard the rumors about her, but—” She shrugged and sat down beside her mom.
I frowned.
“So, are we cool?”
“Yeah. Totally cool, but I thought—”
“Coffee?” a wavering voice called out.
I looked around and remembered the little old lady. I’d have to ask Danni what she was talking about later.
“Coffee’s coming right up.” I walked to the kitchen for the coffeepot and a mug. When I pushed through the swinging door, I paused.
The kitchen was packed. José, his three part-time cooks, Tito the dishwasher, Penney, Yana, and Walt from Ultimate were all standing in a huddle, like a group of football players discussing their next move in the middle of the big game. When they noticed me, they all shut up.
“What now?” I asked, my body sagging as if I’d been deflated. José and Naalyehe looked at each other, an unspoken agreement passing between them.
“How is your arm?” Naalyehe asked, coming over to examine where the coyote’s teeth had grazed it. When I’d come into work that morning, he had seen the scratch and put chewed-up tobacco on it.
As he picked up my hand and made a show of examining my arm, everyone left the kitchen. Even the cooks.
“Don’t draw it out, Naalyehe. Just tell me. Is that poacher guy out of jail, or what?”
“The coyote is the trickster.”
I looked at him, trying to figure out what this had to do with anything.
“It is not a good omen,” he continued. “It means your life is going to change in unexpected ways.”
“And this has to do with …”
He cleared his throat. “Bridger is back. Jorgé, one of the part-time cooks, saw him at the seafood restaurant two days ago and Walt saw him at the health food store today.”
“Oh my gosh! Really?” Helium seemed to expand my deflated body. I started fussing with my hair, trying to tuck the stray wisps back into the ponytail. “He might come in tonight to see me … I mean for dinner.… What is it, Naalyehe?”
Naalyehe was looking down at his scuffed black shoes. A frown creased his mouth. “He was not alone.”
I swallowed hard. “What? Who was he with? Alex? Or Kat?”
“Walt has never seen her before. Neither has Jorgé.”
Her?
“You and Bridger, you were just friends, right?” Naalyehe said, studying my face.
Were just friends? He said it as if Bridger’s and my past was just that: past. “We are friends.”
“Good. Because Walt said he and this woman, they acted … they were kissing in the health food store.” Naalyehe scratched his head. “And she had her arms wrapped around his waist and was … nuzzling … Bridger’s neck while he examined the organic produce. Magdalena?”
I was gasping for air.
“Maggie Mae?” Naalyehe said, using my real name for the first time since he had employed me. “You said you and Bridger are just friends!”
I nodded and forced my mouth to curve up. “We were. Friends. I’m glad. To know, though. About Bridger. And … her. Thanks. For telling me,” I blurted between gasps.
I turned my back to Naalyehe and took two deep, calming breaths, then tossed the grocery bag with the new jacket to the side of the kitchen. I grabbed the coffeepot and walked out into the packed dining room like a robot. That’s how I was the rest of the night—doing my job, but going through the movements mechanically, as if my conscious mind had shut off and I was on autopilot. Otherwise, I might have broken down in the packed dining room and turned into a puddle of tears.
And if the tourists were still staring at me, I was oblivious.
When José called me aside to send me home, I didn’t glance at my watch, so I had no idea what time it was when I walked out of the restaurant carrying my new jacket in its plastic bag. All I knew was my heart felt dead and the moon was pulling at me. Of the two, the broken heart was stronger.
That is when the tears finally started.